


our time to make amends

by glorious_spoon



Series: lost souls and reverie [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Podfic Available, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Jaskier is barely coherent by the time Geralt kicks open the door to the cabin and hauls him inside.(A prequel to 'lost souls and reverie')
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: lost souls and reverie [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623832
Comments: 49
Kudos: 1069





	our time to make amends

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I tried to be all tasteful and restrained when I wrote the first fic, but there were a LOT of porny outtakes that I didn't want to waste, so here's what happened about two hours before Jaskier woke up.

Jaskier is barely coherent by the time Geralt kicks open the door to the cabin and hauls him inside, leaving Roach to the cold comfort of the bare stable outside. He’s babbling and unnaturally hot to the touch, writhing in a way that could be mistaken for pain if Geralt didn’t know better.

He does know better, though, and he can feel the hard ridge of Jaskier’s cock through four layers of clothing as he ruts shamelessly against Geralt’s hip. His hands are frantic, grasping at Geralt: first to drag him closer, then to push him away. Geralt doesn’t allow himself to be pushed. He doesn’t allow himself to think about what this is, what’s happening here, what will happen-- _must_ happen--if he wants Jaskier to live.

It would be easier if he were repelled by the prospect. Simpler, anyway. He’s no stranger to gritting his teeth through unpleasant ordeals, for rewards far less precious than the gift of a friend’s life. But Jaskier is mouthing at his throat and his body is hot and desperate, and there’s nothing at all simple about the tangled mess of arousal and longing and guilt that settles like a stone in his gut.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry.” It’s a slurred tumble of words against his skin, the hint of a sob. “I’m sorry, Geralt, you should go.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He catches Jaskier by the shoulders when it seems that he might stagger, and a low, keening moan escapes the bard’s throat. Geralt hauls him up, afraid that the venom might already have started inducing pain, but a moment later he feels Jaskier’s cock pulse against his thigh, and--fuck. _Fuck,_ he can _smell_ it, a hot salty musk. Slick sweat and come and the giddy haze of arousal.

“God, that’s humiliating,” Jaskier mumbles. His hands are still dragging at Geralt’s clothes clumsily, like his fingers can’t figure out how to work a clasp. He’s still hard. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, it’s really not.”

“Stop apologizing. For once, this wasn’t your fault.”

“I can’t, I can’t--I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s hands are still tugging at his clothes, his fingers trembling; Geralt sighs and helps him, stripping off his jacket and shirt without ceremony. He walks them both toward the bed as he does so, because this is happening--this is clearly happening, and the least he can do, the least kindness he can offer Jaskier now, is not to fuck him on the cold stone floor.

He drops them both on the thin mattress and yanks his boots off, his trousers along with them. Jaskier reaches for him, hands clumsy and grasping. He presses a kiss to the corner of Geralt’s jaw, bites the skin there, murmurs, “I’m sorry,” against his skin and then does it again.

“Don’t—” Geralt bites down on anything else he could say. Jaskier barely seems to be listening to him anyway. He shoves Jaskier away gently only to kneel and pull his boots off, his stockings and breeches. His smallclothes are soaked through with come, dampening the thin linen where it’s pulled tight against his cock. Geralt has a wild urge to push his face into that intoxicating scent, to mouth at Jaskier and hear the noises he might make—

He doesn’t do it. That’s not what this is. He has no right to indulge himself here. Instead, he climbs back onto the bed and strips Jaskier out of his jerkin--already unlaced--and the sweat-damp shirt beneath it. He doesn’t shove Jaskier away when the bard crawls into his lap a moment later, all bare skin and loose limbs. He’s lean but well-muscled, stronger than he looks under all his peacock finery.

He’s beautiful like this. Geralt doesn’t want to think it, but he does.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jaskier says. His breath is hot on Geralt’s ear. If he’s noticed that Geralt is hard against him, he doesn’t seem to care. His hands skitter up his spine, into his hair, tilting his jaw, and Geralt lets himself be moved. Doesn’t let himself react when Jaskier kisses his jaw, his earlobe, the corner of his mouth. Jaskier breathes in shakily after that last one and says, “I’m so sorr—”

Geralt’s self-control abruptly snaps.

“Stop _fucking_ apologizing,” he snarls, and he grips Jaskier’s chin--harder than he should, bruisingly tight--and kisses him hard on the mouth.

It’s a foolish, ill-considered thing to do. Bad enough that he mostly just means to stem the flow of apologies, worse the way that Jaskier opens to him, groaning into his mouth, his hands grasping in Geralt’s hair and his lips and tongue slick and hot as he drags them both down to the mattress. Geralt rolls when they land so that Jaskier is on top of him, all without breaking the kiss.

Worse yet that he doesn’t put a _stop_ to it. He has, he realizes distantly, already far transgressed his rights here. But the least he can do is give Jaskier space to move away.

Not that Jaskier seems at all interested in doing so. His hands bracket Geralt’s face, his mouth hot and skillful as he slots himself between Geralt’s legs and thrusts against him. He breaks away for a moment to stare down at Geralt with eyes that seem luminous, almost inhuman in the dim light; there’s a flush high in his cheeks and an expression akin to shock on his face, even as feverish as he is. His gaze skitters down Geralt’s nearly-naked body, pauses on his cock, which is straining at his breeches.

He has no excuse for this. Not like Jaskier does, drugged and dazed and rutting him even now. But he doesn’t protest when Jaskier shoves the linen aside enough to grip his cock in one sure hand, thumb rubbing over the head to spread precome. Geralt shudders in his grip, throws his head back against the thin pillow, helplessly, damningly undone just from that.

“Gods above, what I wouldn’t give to get this inside me,” Jaskier mutters, sweetly blunt even now. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything?”

“Stop talking,” Geralt says, and drags Jaskier back down into a kiss before he can say anything more incriminating than that.

He pulls at Jaskier’s breeches and his own, tugging until they’re both naked. Jaskier loses it almost immediately, grinding down artlessly against him, and this time Geralt can feel the hot slickness of his release on his own skin. It pleases some atavistic part of him to be marked like this. He can’t quite swallow his groan. It’s too easy right now to imagine this in different circumstances. Soft grass and a crackling campfire. Jaskier laughing and pleased instead of feverish and desperate.

“Geralt, Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, and he sounds unsteady but at least he’s not apologizing anymore. It’s a mixed blessing; he barely sounds coherent, and his skin is as hot as a brand. “I don’t--I need--”

“Just,” Geralt says, and twists beneath him, dragging his fingers through the slick mess on his belly and then bracing his heels on the thin mattress to spread his legs, pressing his fingers back and in. It burns when he opens himself up roughly; there’s no oil to ease this, no time to take care. It makes no difference. Jaskier can’t do him any real damage and it wouldn’t matter if he could. “Like this.”

“Oh, gods, fuck,” Jaskier slurs against his skin when Geralt pulls him down. “Oh fuck, Geralt, please, yes—”

“Stop _talking_ ,” Geralt says, and kisses him again to make sure he does. He can’t let himself think about this beyond the logistics of the moment, beyond concentrating on relaxing as Jaskier’s cock pushes into him. He finds himself gasping into the bard’s soft hair, aching and pinned beneath him; Jaskier is in no position to be gentle and it rides the edge between rough pleasure and genuine pain for several minutes before he thrusts in at a new angle and Geralt fists both hands in the sheets, groaning helplessly.

“I knew you’d like that, knew it, fuck,” Jaskier mutters, and then does it again. His hands grip Geralt’s hips to drag him up and his teeth find Geralt’s throat again, sharp and sweet. Geralt twists the sheets tighter, feels cloth tear beneath his fingers. It’s that or grab at Jaskier, though, and that would be immeasurably worse. This is already torture enough. Jaskier, sweat-slicked and panting and gorgeous, holding him tight enough to leave bruises if he were something that could be bruised, hair hanging loose in over his forehead and blue eyes dazed when he lifts his head to stare down at Geralt like a man in a dream. It’s dim in here with only the moonlight coming in through the windows; Jaskier must barely be able to see him. But the expression on his face—

Geralt does reach for him then, unable to bear that look a moment longer. Jaskier collapses against him, moaning against his throat. The change of angle, the slide of hot skin against him, his cock trapped between their bodies, has Geralt on edge already, ever nerve in his body lit up.

He can hear Jaskier’s heart racing; his own pounds in his chest like a drum as they move together. Jaskier drives into him, fucking him deep and hard, and cries out brokenly as he comes for the third time; the heat and friction and the hot pulse of his cock have Geralt following him over the edge a moment later.

He’s not entirely sure how long they lie there afterwards. Long enough, probably, that they’re in danger of being glued together before Jaskier pulls out of him and rolls slightly, nearly tumbling off the narrow bed. Geralt catches him instinctively.

“Hmmph,” Jaskier mumbles, burrowing against his side. There’s nothing of his earlier desperation; this seems like a cranky, half-conscious search for warmth instead. He’s not hard anymore; his body temperature is cooling to something closer to normal, and he’s starting to shiver. Geralt hauls the blanket over him and slips out of the bed, naked in the cool air. Jaskier makes another noise of protest, but this one sounds even less coherent than the last. His eyes are closed, his damp hair plastered to his forehead. He looks—

Fuck. He looks so young. So human, so terrifyingly fucking breakable.

Geralt swears under his breath and hauls his trousers back on. He goes to fetch the bags from where he dumped them outside, pausing only to give Roach a soothing pat and the wordless promise that he’ll be back to care for her. Back inside, he shakes Jaskier awake again enough to coax him into clean smallclothes at least. The bard’s head lolls for a moment before he blinks up at Geralt, sleepy and dazed with color high in his cheeks.

“Hello,” he says. “Geralt. Fancy meeting you here.”

Geralt leans away from the hand that comes up to pat tenderly at his cheek; undeterred, Jaskier pets his hair instead. He’s loose-limbed and uncharacteristically compliant as Geralt wraps the blanket back around him, tucking the ends in tightly, but he doesn’t seem to be burning up anymore, which means--hopefully--that he’s through the worst of it. Otherwise they’ll be doing this whole fucking thing all over again.

He ignores the feeling that twists hotly through him at that thought. “Get some sleep, bard.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise that sounds like a protest, but his eyes are already closed. A moment later, he’s snoring.

* * *

Geralt busies himself with starting a fire and digging through both their packs for something edible. Jaskier will likely protest that, when he wakes, but if he doesn’t like it then he should know better than to follow witchers into dangerous woods. His packs are empty, at any rate, other than his lute case, which Geralt stashes away from the fire. He’s heard entirely too many detailed complaints about the havoc dry heat can wreak on a delicate instrument to want to subject himself to another round of them.

It’s his own packs that yield the makings of dinner, anyway. Trail rations and dried meat, but it’s enough to put together a thick stew. He builds the fire up, checks on Jaskier again, then goes to look after Roach.

Jaskier is still sleeping when he comes back in, kicking fitfully at the blankets with his skin clammy and sheened with sweat. He doesn’t wake when Geralt settles a hand on his forehead, but he mumbles in his dreams, his eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids. Not for the first time, Geralt wishes he knew as much about looking after humans as he does about killing them. Half as much, even.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, though, so he goes back to the fire. He’s breaking a handful of sticks across his knee when a soft sound makes him turn; Jaskier is awake again, struggling with the blanket wrapped tightly around him. He stills when Geralt kneels before him, lifts his chin to peer into his eyes and presses a hand to his forehead. Jaskier submits to this treatment with a half-serious grimace. “I’m not actually a child.”

He sounds as petulant as one, but he also sounds coherent and entirely like himself. His skin is cool to the touch; not clammy, just cool. Ordinary. Geralt sits back on his heels.

“Fever’s broken,” he says. Jaskier is just watching him with curious blue eyes, head cocked slightly to the side as though he's an odd puzzle. Not at all as though he was pinning Geralt to the bed and fucking him hard a few hours ago. Geralt sighs, knows the answer even before he asks, “What do you remember?”

Pori venom can steal memories in much the way that strong drink can. Sometimes they return; more often not. That’s just as well. Geralt won’t lie about what happened, but if Jaskier’s memory of their heated, frantic coupling remain consigned to the darkness—

It’s better that way. Probably.

“Ah. Not much. I was taken ill, I suppose?” When Geralt doesn’t answer immediately, his voice sharpens. Whatever else Jaskier may be, he’s never been as foolish as he sometimes likes to pretend. “Geralt, what happened? What are you not telling me?”

Facing toward the fire, unseen, Geralt closes his eyes for a long moment, stomps down any stray feelings that might be considering making an appearance, and tells him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] our time to make amends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034312) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)
  * [[Podfic] our time to make amends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035620) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)




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